Why the picture of the breast pump? More like why NOT the picture of the breast pump? Actually, I’m posting part of a short essay I wrote about talking breast pumps (and a link to the rest at Babble). I’m using old material because we moved this weekend. If you feel like I write about moving a lot it’s because we moved from Chicago to Portland about a year ago and have been in two rental houses since we moved. However, this latest house is actually OUR house. We bought it. And, I’m celebrating with you by posting a breast pump essay because that’s how I like to party.  My Talking Breast Pump  I don’t believe in ghosts. I’ve never been abducted by aliens. I don’t see dead people. So I’m a little reluctant to admit the following: My breast pump used to talk to me. Well … it didn’t exactly talk to me. I never had a conversation with it. I don’t know if it was a Cubs or a White Sox fan. But when I used my Medela Pump In Style, I heard words. Shortly after I gave birth, a lactation consultant recommended that I pump in order to give my low milk supply a “jump start” – which really is the perfect term to describe hooking one’s breasts up to a machine using what look like teeny-tiny jumper cables. I pumped my sleep-deprived little heart out, but my cup – or, more accurately, my BPA-free bottles – did not runneth over; instead, they collected small puddles of milk. And it was about a week into this frustrating routine that I first heard from my portable, supposedly inanimate companion. An observer – and thank goodness there weren’t any given the eye-wrenching circumstances – might have thought it was simply the pump’s repetitive wheeze. But I heard things like this: “Uh oh. Uh oh.” “No way. No way.” “Stop it. Stop it.” And I won’t even go into the swearing. Once I started making out what sounded like words, I was taunted on a regular basis. And as if the harassment wasn’t enough, that little sucker made me feel like I was losing my mind. Who else besides a crazy woman believes her breast pump talks to her? I had to know: Was it me, or did other people hear from their pumps, too? At first I couldn’t bring myself to ask, but eventually I summoned the courage to post the following on my blog: “For those of you who have used electric breast pumps: Did the suction noise ever sound like words to you?” I winced after I hit enter. What if I was the only one? The rest can be found here… 

Why the picture of the breast pump? More like why NOT the picture of the breast pump? Actually, I’m posting part of a short essay I wrote about talking breast pumps (and a link to the rest at Babble). I’m using old material because we moved this weekend. If you feel like I write about moving a lot it’s because we moved from Chicago to Portland about a year ago and have been in two rental houses since we moved. However, this latest house is actually OUR house. We bought it. And, I’m celebrating with you by posting a breast pump essay because that’s how I like to party. 

My Talking Breast Pump 

I don’t believe in ghosts. I’ve never been abducted by aliens. I don’t see dead people. So I’m a little reluctant to admit the following: My breast pump used to talk to me. Well … it didn’t exactly talk to me. I never had a conversation with it. I don’t know if it was a Cubs or a White Sox fan. But when I used my Medela Pump In Style, I heard words.

Shortly after I gave birth, a lactation consultant recommended that I pump in order to give my low milk supply a “jump start” – which really is the perfect term to describe hooking one’s breasts up to a machine using what look like teeny-tiny jumper cables.

I pumped my sleep-deprived little heart out, but my cup – or, more accurately, my BPA-free bottles – did not runneth over; instead, they collected small puddles of milk. And it was about a week into this frustrating routine that I first heard from my portable, supposedly inanimate companion. An observer – and thank goodness there weren’t any given the eye-wrenching circumstances – might have thought it was simply the pump’s repetitive wheeze. But I heard things like this:

“Uh oh. Uh oh.”

“No way. No way.”

“Stop it. Stop it.”

And I won’t even go into the swearing.

Once I started making out what sounded like words, I was taunted on a regular basis. And as if the harassment wasn’t enough, that little sucker made me feel like I was losing my mind. Who else besides a crazy woman believes her breast pump talks to her? I had to know: Was it me, or did other people hear from their pumps, too?

At first I couldn’t bring myself to ask, but eventually I summoned the courage to post the following on my blog:

“For those of you who have used electric breast pumps: Did the suction noise ever sound like words to you?”

I winced after I hit enter. What if I was the only one?

The rest can be found here… 

The One About A Fruit Baby I’m posting this picture of a “fruit baby” or whatever the heck you’re supposed to call it — but not for the reason you think. Yes, I am posting it because it’s adorable. I mean, it’s actually one of the most adorable things I’ve ever seen. But, that’s not the only reason why I wanted to post this. You see, I didn’t find this “fruit baby” on Pinterest, where I assume you can find lots of things like this. My guess is — on Pinterest — “fruit babies” are a big thing. I’m guessing that “veggie puppies” and “kittens carved out of bread” are a big thing on Pinterest too. But I saw this on Facebook. My friend posted it and wrote, “I got creative with fruit.” What I liked so much about it is that my friend, the one who made it, is not a “fruit baby” kind of gal. Or, at least, that’s what I thought. She’s an attorney; she’s very interested in politics and current events; she’s a mother. But I wouldn’t have pegged her as a “fruit baby” maker.  And that’s what I love about people. I love when they surprise you. This has been a horrible week. It’s hard to remember such a horrible week. And I just want to tell my friend Amie that I love this fruit baby. I never thought I’d be the kind of person to get a kick out of fruit babies, nor did I ever think she’d be the kind of person to make them. And that’s what makes this fruit baby so great. So, I’d like to make a toast to Amie’s fruit baby: Here’s to surprising people. And here’s to being surprised. 

The One About A Fruit Baby

I’m posting this picture of a “fruit baby” or whatever the heck you’re supposed to call it — but not for the reason you think. Yes, I am posting it because it’s adorable. I mean, it’s actually one of the most adorable things I’ve ever seen. But, that’s not the only reason why I wanted to post this.

You see, I didn’t find this “fruit baby” on Pinterest, where I assume you can find lots of things like this. My guess is — on Pinterest — “fruit babies” are a big thing. I’m guessing that “veggie puppies” and “kittens carved out of bread” are a big thing on Pinterest too.

But I saw this on Facebook. My friend posted it and wrote, “I got creative with fruit.”

What I liked so much about it is that my friend, the one who made it, is not a “fruit baby” kind of gal. Or, at least, that’s what I thought. She’s an attorney; she’s very interested in politics and current events; she’s a mother. But I wouldn’t have pegged her as a “fruit baby” maker. 

And that’s what I love about people. I love when they surprise you. This has been a horrible week. It’s hard to remember such a horrible week. And I just want to tell my friend Amie that I love this fruit baby. I never thought I’d be the kind of person to get a kick out of fruit babies, nor did I ever think she’d be the kind of person to make them. And that’s what makes this fruit baby so great.

So, I’d like to make a toast to Amie’s fruit baby: Here’s to surprising people. And here’s to being surprised. 

“Child-rearing” seems like an appropriate enough name, given how much time you spend wiping them.

A thousand apologies. A  million apologies. I beg your pardons — plural. I am so sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me. I had a story that ran on the Huffington Post a couple of days ago but I didn’t know about it until now so this is the first that you’re probably hearing about it too. I know. I know! Your weekend is almost ruined because of it. You probably tossed and turned in your sleep thinking that something, somewhere just wasn’t right. Maybe you thought you left the oven on or that you didn’t lock a window. No. No! It was me. I didn’t post my thing on time. 

Well, all is now right with the world. (Actually, it isn’t. The world’s a really messed up place but just work with me.)

Here’s the link. Please read it. Please pass it on. Or don’t. I don’t know why I ask so much of you. Ugh!!!! Sorry again. I’m so sorry. I need to go bury my head in the sand now. 

I did a rhyme-y thing for the Huffington Post called “The Year in Review in Parenting in Rhyme” or something like that. Maybe I should have said it was a rap? Raps are cool. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. It’s too late. It’s not a rap. Ugh. I blew it.    Please read it anyway. I beg you. I’m literally on my knees right now begging you to read it. It’s hard to type because I’m on my knees and my laptop is on the table, and I can barely reach.  Please. 

I did a rhyme-y thing for the Huffington Post called “The Year in Review in Parenting in Rhyme” or something like that. Maybe I should have said it was a rap? Raps are cool. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. It’s too late. It’s not a rap. Ugh. I blew it.   

Please read it anyway. I beg you. I’m literally on my knees right now begging you to read it. It’s hard to type because I’m on my knees and my laptop is on the table, and I can barely reach. 

Please. 

Before we close out September, I want to give a special thank you to the mother who made the news this month and, in the process, made me feel like I wasn’t doing that bad of a job as a parent.  Thank you to Utah’s Potty Training Mom who brought her twin toddlers and her toddlers’ potties to a restaurant — and let her children sit on the toilets while they ate. As a fellow diner described, “She had to undo the jumpsuits, and take them all the way down so they were completely nude, with the jumpsuits down to their ankles just eating their chicken nuggets, sitting on little toddler potties.” I like you, Potty Training Mom. I like you the way I used to like all of the parents on Supernanny. You just make ME feel better about what I’m doing and for that I say thank you. The next time I’m having one of those I-Feel-Like-A-Shitty-Parent Moments, I’m going to think of you and your shitty parenting moment. And, I’m going to be glad that  my moment is a figurative one. 

Before we close out September, I want to give a special thank you to the mother who made the news this month and, in the process, made me feel like I wasn’t doing that bad of a job as a parent. 

Thank you to Utah’s Potty Training Mom who brought her twin toddlers and her toddlers’ potties to a restaurant — and let her children sit on the toilets while they ate. As a fellow diner described, “She had to undo the jumpsuits, and take them all the way down so they were completely nude, with the jumpsuits down to their ankles just eating their chicken nuggets, sitting on little toddler potties.”

I like you, Potty Training Mom. I like you the way I used to like all of the parents on Supernanny. You just make ME feel better about what I’m doing and for that I say thank you. The next time I’m having one of those I-Feel-Like-A-Shitty-Parent Moments, I’m going to think of you and your shitty parenting moment. And, I’m going to be glad that  my moment is a figurative one.